When a Good Man Goes to War
by Raxacoriocofallapatorius
Summary: John is considered a good man: kind, gentle, and sociable. What the populous doesn't seem to understand, and what maybe only Sherlock does, is that John isn't a good man. Good men don't have rules. Warnings: BAMF John.
1. Chapter 1

**(A/N: I know I should be working on ****_Locked in Each Other's Gaze,_****_Phantom Adorable and Charming, _****and ****_A Slave of Your Own_****, but when one gets hit with a one-shot, one usually cannot ignore it. This one struck me whilst watching Hunger Games with my mother. Plot bunnies have the strangest timing, don't they? Anyways, this one is inspired by that one episode of Doctor Who. Yeah… I'm a nerd. :/ Get over it. :3)**

* * *

"Good men don't need rules. Today is not the day to find out why I have so many."

The Doctor, "_When a Good Man Goes to War" _(6.7)

* * *

John watched from his chair with amusement. Sherlock was relentlessly teasing his brother again and normally John would have stopped him by now, but Mycroft really did deserve it this time.

"Really Sherlock. If I-"

"If you had any self-restraint," Sherlock interrupted with a sneer, "you wouldn't have 'indulged' and eaten that chocolate muffin from your favorite bakery three streets over!" John chuckled softly. Plus it really was funny to watch them bicker occasionally.

John had come down the stairs that morning, clad in only pants and, thankfully, a robe, to find Mycroft sitting in John's seat, per usual. In his hand, the one not holding the always present umbrella, was a manila folder.

Normally the sight of these folders was good, an omen of busy nights full of running and adrenaline and a blatant lack of boredom, but the folder was a deal thicker than usual. When Sherlock swept in, impeccably dressed in his usual suit and, honestly, too-tight shirt, and saw the folder, an almost predatory smile crept onto his face.

John had quickly made his way into the kitchen and prepared three mugs of tea, one for him, Sherlock, and Mycroft. After living with Sherlock for close to a year, John had not only learned how Mycroft wanted his tea, but also when he _would _want it. And today was going to be an extra-spoonful-of-sugar kind of day; John could tell by the way Mycroft's foot had begun tapping when Sherlock had entered the room.

With the tea in hand, John returned to the living room to find it in a building state of array. Mycroft was now standing, almost pacing, and Sherlock was casually leaned back in his chair, the fat folder resting untouched on one arm. John handed out the mugs and sank into his chair, the Union Jack pillow tucked under his left elbow, supporting his arm. He wiggled a bit, getting comfortable, before looking over at Sherlock expectantly.

"Well?" he prompted. Sherlock turned his burning gaze to his flatmate for a second before returning it to his brother.

"Yes, Mycroft," he drawled, "_why_ are you here disrupting our morning?" John shot Sherlock a warning look. So far Mycroft hadn't done anything.

Mycroft looked down at the file on the chair's arm, sifting through his thoughts before speaking. "I ran into a… problem," he began cautiously, choosing his words carefully.

"What sort of problem? With who?" John asked, leaning forward.

"Whom, John," Sherlock mumbled, fingers steepled under his nose. John waved his correction away.

"A few years ago," Mycroft began, anxiously twirling the umbrella between his fingers, "we caught wind of a new drug lord on rise and, in an effort to track Moriarty," John's head snapped up at the name and a quick glance to Sherlock showed the man was just as focused now, "we allowed him to grow." In a flash, Sherlock's face rapidly morphed from interest to understanding to disinterest to such a smug look John had to fight the urge to slap him, even though it wasn't directed at him. Mycroft noticed too. "Now, brother. Let's not jump to conclusions," he chastised, tilting his head. Sherlock must have seen something on Mycroft's face that John couldn't because his smile only grew.

"Now, _brother_," Sherlock mocked, arching an eyebrow, "you don't mean to tell me that you lost control?" And in that instant John was caught up.

"Hold on," he held up a hand. "You mean to tell me that the British Government lost control of some druggie?" John threw his head back and laughed. Mycroft shifted, uncomfortable, pulling at his suit and moving his umbrella from one hand to the other.

"I came here to alleviate your impending boredom," Mycroft began.

"No," John interrupted, his tone even, "you came here because you've made a mistake and don't know how to fix it without Sherlock's help. The least you could do is admit it when you mess up." Mycroft bristled.

"Doctor Watson," his voice was laced with venom. _Spot on, then,_ John noted. "You should know by now that I _don't mess up_. There may be the occasional err, but not have I once-"

"John is absolutely correct and you know it," Sherlock spoke up, cutting Mycroft off again. "Instead of talking semantics, why don't you just sit and tell me what blunder you've managed to produce so I can readily refuse, you can leave, and I can take care of anyways." Sherlock looked at Mycroft as he spoke, his eyes cold and focused. Mycroft didn't blush, John is sure he would have under the same situation, instead he seemed to harden under Sherlock's gaze; his stilled and narrowed his focus into that one moment, his own eyes glaring back.

After a minute or two, John decided enough was enough. And really it was unhealthy to go that long without blinking. "Alright boys. Now's not the time. Mycroft, you were saying something about a new drug lord run amuck?" John faced the older Holmes's glare with a look that was nothing but pure innocence. Sherlock chuckled softly. As dignified as possible, Mycroft lowered himself onto the couch, just perching on the edge of the cushion.

"Morris, Stephen," Mycroft gestured towards the file. Sherlock looked down at it with distain, leaving John to get up, with some grumbling, and retrieve it himself. "His drug lord name was Ruax, which is apparently the fallen angel of headaches. But to his friends he preferred 'Phen.'"

"Probably trying to make 'Stephen Morris' more appealing," John murmured as he looked down at the picture he'd found amongst the extensive files. The man, if you could call him that for he looked about sixteen in the picture, would have been handsome, strikingly so, if he hadn't been into drugs. His face was angular, but now gaunt, leaving his long nose, sharp cheekbones, and wide jaw with pointed chin too large on him. He had large, green eyes that may have sparkled at one point, but were now sunken and flat. His long, blond hair hung in stringy clumps over his already drawn face, making it seem younger and more haggard at the same time.

John shook his head. _So many bright minds are lost to drugs and crime, far too many. _He turned another page. "It says here he's only twenty three!" John could barely keep the disbelief out of his voice. Sherlock turned his sharp gaze to John and then to Mycroft, who sighed.

"That was one of the qualities that attracted us to Morris in the first place," he said quietly. "To be able to climb the ranks so quickly he had to be one of three things: very lucky, very clever, or, the most likely, a minion of Moriarty."

"Then why didn't you take him in for questioning?" Sherlock demanded. "I've seen you steal a person off the streets for less." He threw a pointed look towards John.

"They were mere suspicions," Mycroft stated calmly. "We had no foundation on which to hold him. There was no reason to take him in for questioning if we weren't even positive if he was working for Moriarty."

"There's a lot in this folder, Mycroft," John commented carefully. "I think you had gathered enough evidence to at least take him in on suspicion of interacting with Jim." He flipped through a few more papers before looking up at the man sitting stiffly on the couch. "So why didn't you?" Mycroft's cheek twitched, but otherwise he remained motionless. Sherlock leaned forward and snatched a few paper clipped pages from the bottom.

After quickly glancing over them, his head snapped up and he sent an accusatory glare to Mycroft who actually flinched. "You lost touch," he almost whispered.

"What?" John demanded, a mixture of anxiety, confusion, and disbelief coursing through his system. Losing touch can be far more detrimental than losing control. John knew. One glance at Mycroft's bowed head confirmed that John had heard correctly. "You 'lost touch'?! How could the British Government lose track of one pubescent drug lord?" Mycroft's face twitched and he surged to his feet.

"You may have fought for your Queen and country, Doctor Watson," he spat, "but do not presume to know how I work!" John sat, stunned, watching as the normally perfectly composed man ranted. "Your _imbecilic_ mind could not comprehend what I have to deal with on a daily basis!" John flinched and Sherlock stood, eyes blazing.

"MYCROFT! ENOUGH!" he shouted and Mycroft caught himself. Closing his eyes, the man took deep breaths, releasing them slowly, and sat back onto the couch. He opened them again and turned to John, apology clear in their gray depths.

"I did not mean to lose control like that, John. It has been stressful at work recently, for all our efforts to locate Mr. Morris have been in vain." Mycroft didn't say he was sorry, he never does, but that was as close to an apology as John would get and he accepted it with a nod. But Sherlock latched on to something else Mycroft said.

"'All your efforts' Mycroft? How long have you been looking for Mr. Morris?" Sherlock leaned forward, arching an eyebrow and steepling his hands beneath his chin. "Based upon how ragged you look and the wrinkles in your suit, I'd say a month or two, but the real question is why are you just coming to us now?" Sherlock tilted his head and looked Mycroft over once before leaning back in his chair and releasing a breath. "Oh. You believed that if you put me on the case I'd relapse and you didn't want to take the risk. My past addictions were a liability in your eyes." Sherlock fell quiet and John watched him carefully.

Mycroft straightened and held his head high. "And I stand by my decision. The only reason I'm coming to you now is as a last resort. I have exhausted all my other resources and he is yet to be found." It was Sherlock's turn to bristle. "If I had my way, I wouldn't be here at all." John braced himself. He could tell that Sherlock was going to lash out.

"If I had my way, I wouldn't have to worry about anything your _pudgy_ little government fingers have touched!" Sherlock spat. John stifled a giggle. 'Pudgy little government fingers' was uncalled for, but it sure was funny.

And there they were, John sitting back in his chair, watching the two brothers blow off some steam, and silently laughing at a few of the exchanges. But eventually, they had to get back to the matters at hand, so John leaned forward and said, in his quiet, yet completely commanding, voice, "Boys. I do believe there is a reason Mycroft is disrupting our morning," and the two fell silent almost immediately.

John had used that voice when he was in the army, but only when some of his subordinates weren't listening. He'd found out quickly after being promoted to Captain, that yelling did nothing to diffuse a situation and usually quiet words were heard easier. And, not too soon afterward, people, superiors and subordinates alike, learned that if Captain John Hamish Watson spoke softly, you snap your trap and listen. So, about two months after moving in with Sherlock, John was overjoyed to learn that the voice had the same effect on the consulting detective and British government.

But, as a rule, he only used it when absolutely necessary.

Within a few seconds, Mycroft was back on the couch and Sherlock was back in his chair. John straightened and, with a small smile, leaned back again. "So, Mycroft," he turned to the man quietly sipping his tea, "where was the last place you had eyes on Stephen Morris?"

Mycroft nodded and gingerly set his tea down.

* * *

Sherlock's eyes followed John as he made his way into the kitchen. Mycroft had left about an hour ago, but they had remained in the room, setting up their customary map. After organizing and pinning up the information to the wall, John's stomach had grumbled and he decided that it was a fine time to have a meal.

Now John was out of sight, but still in Sherlock's thoughts. This small army doctor, even after all this time, continued to surprise him. He's reminded of it every day and it completely befuddles Sherlock. He could hear John milling around in the kitchen, digging through the cupboards and refrigerator in search of sustenance. Sherlock estimated that John would find his hunt fruitless and return with the decision to go out to eat in five seconds.

John came back, right on time, muttering under his breath. He turned to Sherlock, who was still lounging in his chair, and said, "Put on your coat; we're going out for brunch." Sherlock shuddered at the mutilation of the English language, but complied. Soon they were walking down the street, arms occasionally brushing, towards the very café Mycroft had stopped by that morning.

After a few moments, Sherlock broke the silence. "Something has been eluding my understanding, John," he began. John chuckled softly. Sherlock would do anything to avoid saying he doesn't know. John nodded to prompt him to continue. "This morning you were able to catch both Mycroft and my own attention as well as silence us and make us comply. Almost effortlessly, I might add." John smiled at his feet. He was wondering how long till Sherlock took note of that particular ability.

"Yes," John said cautiously.

"What I cannot seem to grasp is why you do not utilize that commanding tone more often," Sherlock continued, his eyes on John, gauging his reaction. "I know I am not the easiest to live with and I seem quite responsive to that specific method, so I am unable to find any reason why you have used it maybe three times in our entire acquaintance."

John kept his eyes on the ground before them, but his brow furrowed. "It was something I developed in the army. I used it much more freely then than I do now, but that's because I didn't have any of the rules." That caught Sherlock's attention.

"Rules?" he asked, arching an eyebrow. He knew that John was a careful man, setting boundaries so if and when he lost his temper there were steps he could implement. But Sherlock wasn't aware that John had more. It is intriguing.

John nodded, his eyes finally leaving the ground and finding Sherlock's face. "I realized, after being invalided home, that it was powerful and I had no right to use it so liberally. So I set up some rules to keep usage to a minimum." John fell silent and Sherlock waited for him to continue. But he didn't.

"But what _are_ the rules?" Sherlock asked, curiosity getting the better of him. John shook his head, his gaze wandering to their surroundings, and said nothing. Sherlock grabbed his shoulder (_Right, not left. Don't want to hurt him_) and pulled himself around to face John, stopping them both. "John. Tell me. I _need _to know."

John pinned Sherlock with a look he'd never seen before and he involuntarily shuddered. "You don't 'need' to know, you _want_ to know," John said softly. Sherlock squeezed his shoulder and opened his mouth. "_Drop it, Sherlock_," John interrupted him before he could speak. Sherlock closed his mouth with a small 'clop', eyes wide. There it was again, that quiet power.

John shook his head and came back to himself. The hard look leaves his eyes and they drop to the ground. "Sorry. I didn't mean to do that…" John mumbled as he brushed Sherlock's hand off him and pushed past him, hands securely shoved in his pockets.

Sherlock watched John walk away, shoulders hunched, for a few seconds before following after him, his long legs allowing him to gain ground quickly. Sherlock slowed as he neared his friend, letting John have his silence until they reached the bakery.

* * *

John sat in his chair with a huff. Leaning forward, he ground the heels of his hands into his eyes. _Oh God…_ John lamented silently. He was very careful, _ever _so careful, about what he says and how he says it and when he says it. Any wrong word could escalate a conversation to an argument and he could lose his temper and then… _exactly that would happen. _A rule would be broken, and that is unacceptable_._

Sighing, John sat back and let his head fall against the chair. He needed to let it go; let it go and focus on the case at hand: Stephen Morris, Phen, Ruax. _Alright,_ John clapped his hands together and stood with a small groan. Without glancing around the empty flat, Sherlock had gone out briefly to consult his homeless network, John walked over to the map on the wall decorated with string and pictures and note cards and pages from Mycroft's file.

_Six months he's been lost,_ John noted, his finger tapping the last entry on the board. _They've been tailing him for the last two and a half years, but as time passes the reports come in less and less. _John squints at one of the pages that interrupted a nearly three month silence. All it said was that Stephen's range of clientele had expanded to a majority of the London area. _Very brief for a trained government official. Maybe the mole got in deeper than expected and defected…_ John glanced over the other notes and let his mind cover multiple possibilities.

Despite Sherlock's constant degrading, Doctor John Hamish Watson was an intelligent man. Not to the level that Sherlock was on, perhaps only Mycroft and Moriarty were on that level, but John was by no means an idiot or moron or imbecile or any other word Sherlock had thrown his way. So as he thumbs through Mycroft and Sherlock's notes, John begins to build a chain of events, keeping doors open on unsure probabilities and firmly securing those he _knows_ to be true.

And so it goes for an hour or two. Until John notices Sherlock's continued absence. He glances at the clock and then his phone. _No new messages or missed calls_. Sherlock should be back by now. _No. Don't panic. He's been known to do this: go out for a small reason, have an epiphany, and go running off without any support._ Deep breath, in and out, and John is centered once more.

He glares down at his phone. "You have until morning to prove me wrong," he says softly, yet resolutely.

**(A/N: Still working on it *cough* 18 pages at over 10k words *cough* but it's grown so much I feel that I should break it into chapters. I know I said one-shot, but honestly I want to share it now. :3 Don't forget to review.)**


	2. Chapter 2

**(A/N: Another overwhelming response. Not to the magnitude of ****_Locked in Each Other's Gaze_****, but that's been around longer so that's fine. :3 Thank you guys so much for the reviews and favorites and follows and stuff, so here's the next part.)**

John feels he has the right to panic now. He waited all night for Sherlock to come in through the front door, loud and obnoxious and very much alive. Yet he never did. And now John has a stiff neck. And he is cranky and tired. _And_ so on edge he's almost falling off.

John paced the flat, back and forth and back and forth, his mind racing as he tried to conceive excuses for Sherlock's tardiness. _He found another clue, no he would be back by now. Lestrade called him in for another case, no he would have texted me to join him. And anyways, Lestrade knew they were working on something for Mycroft. _John had reached the front door. He turned, about face, and made his way back again. _There has to be a reason. He can't have gotten injured or kidnapped or drugged or killed and lying in a ditch __**deadsomewhereand**__-_

John shook his head hard, running his fingers through his hair and scratching his scalp lightly. God, he needed to focus. He needed tea. John turned again and dashed to the kitchen, his leg twinging. _NO! You will NOT act up when Sherlock needs me to be at my best, _he mentally chastised the limb. After a minute or two, John was in his seat, feet anxiously tapping the floor, tea warming his hands and scalding his tongue. Just what he needs to draw him back to reality.

When John was first deployed in Afghanistan, all fresh-faced and ready to serve Queen and country, he'd been shocked at the brutality, the savagery. Battle wasn't glorious. It was bright days with the wind rubbing your very essence away with the sand and dark nights with the cold numbing you to the bone. It was the sun burning and drying you inside and out. It was gunshots and explosions and red _red __**red**_ everywhere. It was everything but what John expected.

But that was fine. John learned to cope. He learned to focus on saving the life in front of him instead of worrying over the thousands of other lives he had no say in. He learned to go without a shirt when he could during the day and to brave the harsh cold of the night with _just_ a shirt. He learned to black out the faces he strikes down and the lives he lose. John learned that nothing drew him out of a panic like adrenaline and pain. And if he wasn't out on the field where both were in abundance, John would make himself some tea or coffee, nice and hot and fresh, and sip, letting the boiling brew burn his tongue and draw him out of whatever stupor he'd found himself in.

So hot tea was just what he needed. John was awakened by the pain. Not John Watson, ever loyal friend of Sherlock, or Doctor Watson, the wonderful practitioner with the steady hands and kind words, but Captain John Hamish Watson of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers, the loyal killer with the steady hands and hard eyes. That was the John Sherlock needed right now.

_Okay. Review the facts and don't let sentiment cloud your judgment,_ John told himself, almost hearing Sherlock's own baritone muttering, 'Caring is not an advantage. Sentiment is for the weak.' Oh, how wrong he was. John knew that caring was an incentive, the extra push that you could use to get you on your best game. Letting your emotions and feelings overwhelm and control you is dangerous, not the feelings themselves.

Thinking back, John knew that Sherlock left the flat at around 2000 hours the night before and it was 0600 hours now. That was an estimated 10 hours that Sherlock has been out. It would normally take him maybe an hour or two to get in contact with a number of people in his homeless network, at least long enough to set a net of observers. _But,_ John halted in the middle of the track he'd been pacing, _Sherlock didn't expressively say he was going to contact his homeless network._ Which was worryingly true.

The night before, after he and John had returned from another complimentary dinner at another restaurant owned by another person Sherlock had helped in some way (this one Thai), Sherlock had gone immediately to his room, barely taking the time to shed his coat and scarf and discard them on the couch. And in his room he had remained, even after John offered fresh tea through the closed door. John had lingered after receiving an adamant "NO" and heard a good bit of rustling and crashing. Then, maybe an hour or so later, Sherlock had emerged, quickly pulled on his coat and scarf once more, and mumbled something about going out to get some information and being back in about an hour.

At the time, John had assumed Sherlock meant his homeless network, but now… John leapt to his feet and dashed to Sherlock's room. He'd only been _in_ there once and that was to put the drugged detective to bed after their first run-in with Irene Adler, but based on glances from the hallway it was usually kept clean: an inexplicable neatness in comparison to the chaos of the living room and kitchen. Now it was in complete disarray.

Boxes and papers were strewn about, covering the bed and floor, and the closet was thrown open revealing neatly hung jackets, but empty shelves. John's eyes trailed all about the room, his mouth agape. "What the-?" John murmured as he took a few cautious steps in. Then his eyes found a small section where the papers had been pushed back, leaving a patch of wooden floor peeking through and one lone box.

Two steps. That's all it took for John to reach the small box. That's all it took for John to see all the different business cards, restaurants and lawyers and both small and large businesses, all sorted alphabetically by type. That's all it took for John to notice that the cards were open to 'D'. That's all it took for John to make the connection.

John knelt by the open box, thumbing till he ran out of names he didn't recognize and pulled the handful out. Dashing back to the living room, John lay out the cards side by side on the coffee table and pulled out his mobile, speed dialing Mycroft. He answered, calm and collected and drawling out John's name as usual.

"I need you to tell me the locations of all the people whose names I give you," John ordered, not bothering to explain.

"Now John," Mycroft said condescendingly; John could easily hear the smirk. "I am not a lackey for you to order around, nor will I stand for you to call me at any hour. I do have a job to attend to and, unlike Sherlock, I do sleep on a regular basis." John grit his teeth. Rules be damned.

"Mycroft," the Captain had emerged and wasn't going anywhere. John was beyond caring how many rules were broken. He would find Sherlock and Mycroft _will_ help. "Your brother, my _best friend_, has been missing for a maximum of 10 hours and, considering the case you so ungratefully _dumped_ onto our laps, I think it is safe to assume that he is in danger." John's voice lowered to a dangerous level. "So you _will_ do as I ask and give me the most recent locations of all the names I supply." Silence echoed over the line.

"Alright," Mycroft said softly, all sarcasm replaced with seriousness. "I am at my computer. What are the names?" John gave a curt nod, even though no one could see him, and began rattling them off. Mycroft would quickly respond with a street address, having located them using a mixture of his records and CCTV, and John would scribble down the address given and quickly pin it up on the map. They continued like this for a few minutes when Mycroft paused. "John," his voice was still soft, almost anxious. "These are all people arrested for possession. What does this have to do with Sherlock?"

John paused and stared at the last card in his hand, the address written in bold angry letters, holding back a bitter laugh. "About how many years would you say your brother used?" he asked. Mycroft was silent. "All through uni and a good bit after, I would expect." John did laugh this time and it came out just as bitter and dark as he'd anticipated. "And how many dealers did you pick up to protect your little brother?" Silence. "And how many of those dealers are on this list of names I gave you tonight?"

Finally Mycroft spoke, his voice still quiet but more stern like it usually is. "All but three." John waited for him to continue. "And two of them are still in jail." John exhaled slowly through his nose, letting some of the tension in his shoulders fall away. He'd silently hoped, but was just as afraid that Mycroft had missed one. That Sherlock had been able to keep one secret, under wraps, untouchable.

"Who?" John asked as he pinned the last card up. The dealers were widespread, but John could catch a pattern anyways. They were clustered together in three separate groups: one probably near the university Sherlock attended, one almost definitely near a rehab in the middle of country, and the third all throughout the London area. "Where?"

John faintly heard Mycroft's fingers hitting keys heavily. "He was always one of Sherlock's favourites. He contacted Sherlock as soon as he heard Sherlock was out of rehabilitation." Mycroft grew quiet for a minute. "His name is Douglas Harper. I was only able to convict him for possession once, when Sherlock was just starting out, but he grew cautious soon after." John inhaled and exhaled. _Keep calm…_ "The last time he was seen by one of the CCTV cameras was about three days ago, near Waterloo Bridge on the South Bank." John turned and, seeing red, threw his mobile at the couch.

He paced back and forth, breathing heavily and tugging at his short hair. John couldn't focus, panic was setting in. _Gotta find Sherlock. Must find Sherlock. Damn my rules. Damn the law. Law… _John blinked, mind clearing long enough for him to hear muffled yelling. _Shit. Mycroft._ He lunged to the couch and grabbed his phone, pulling it to his ear.

"John! Are you okay!" Mycroft was shouting still, causing John to flinch away from the receiver.

"I'm fine. I'm fine," he assured him. "Just threw my phone at the couch. Thought it was better than shooting holes in the wall," he gave a weak chuckle. It wasn't true. John hadn't thought. He had acted on his anger without a second of consideration to the consequences. That's the second time Sherlock has caused him to do that. The first was so long ago, when a cabbie had threatened Sherlock's life in the first twenty four hours of John knowing him. John had broken three rules that night. "Mycroft. I have to find Harper. I'm sure Sherlock went to him." John had to stop and take a breath. "I'm sure he knows what happened."

Mycroft gave a small noise of assent. "I'll text you a picture of him. Another thing John, he prefers Douggie, so be sure to ask with that name." A small giggle escaped John's lips, but quickly died. "What?"

"Nothing," John huffed. "Just… Douggie the druggie. Made me laugh a bit." Mycroft just harrumphed. "I'll find him, Mycroft. Don't worry."

"Of course I worry, John," Mycroft responded gravely. "But for the poor fools that took Sherlock away from his doctor." John had to smile. "Good-day, John. I expect to be kept informed."

"You will," John assured.

"And John?" Mycroft sounded like he was smiling, but he didn't smile. Not really… "If you do anything… frowned upon, try not to get caught." He grew marginally quieter, "I'm not sure how well Sherlock would take losing you, for any amount of time." With that he hung up before John could even think to reply.

Not seconds later, the mobile buzzed and John opened the received text and attached picture. It was small and slightly grainy, but John could still make out the heavy brow, full lips, thick nose that had been broken multiple times, wide jaw, and strong cheekbones. Douggie also sported short bleach-blond hair that was slightly longer on top and an earring on one ear with a stud on the other. John could easily identify him in a crowd.

Tucking his phone back in his pocket, John reviewed the map once more, jabbing a finger at Waterloo Bridge. 'About an hour,' Sherlock had said. _So, knowing he left his wallet on the kitchen table, Sherlock had to go by foot._ John looked at Baker Street and the surrounding area. _There's not too many places he could walk to and back in an hour and not be spotted by CCTV._ Keeping his right finger on the South bank end of Waterloo Bridge, John grabbed a few red thumbtacks from behind him. He quickly pushed them in the prospect places.

Three of the five intersect with another person's territory, so they were out of the running. One of the remaining three was  
impossible to reach from Waterloo Bridge without passing through an area with surveillance. Two areas left. _Right._ John set the boundaries to memory before turning about face to prepare. He was getting Sherlock back. At _any _cost.

**(A/N: Now if y'all were paying attention you'd see that this part has that teaser quote I gave you some time ago. Glad you made it this far. :3 Don't forget to review.**

Now, to address the guest that reviewed [thanks btw]: I'd have to say I agree with you. I'm enjoying writing this story a bit more than **_Locked in Each Other's Gaze_****, but that's because this material IS original: the dialogue, the OCs, the situation, everything. But I promise you that LEOG is going to have its fair share of original material. It's just slower getting there. Either way, I will keep with this one [I am farther along than what I have here and only about half finished] and it shall be EPIC! I look forward to hearing from you. :3)**


	3. Chapter 3

**(A/N: I'm taking baby steps with these chapters. I like making you wait and wonder. }:] So sue me. Anyways, when writing Stephen I made an effort to ****_not_**** make another Moriarty and when I noticed how close to Jim he was getting at certain parts, I would go back and rewrite them. And then I had a brilliant idea.)**

Sherlock blinked slowly, his eyes heavy and head throbbing. He felt like a truck had hit him, backed up, and ran over him again. He went to rub his eyes, only to find his arms were restrained. In a surge of adrenaline that left him slightly dizzy, Sherlock's eyes snapped open and he took in his surroundings. He was zip-tied to a metal chair secured to the floor by bolts. The room around him was made of stone, slightly damp (_basement then, or at least underground_), but had rusted support beams in the four corners (_probably old factory or warehouse_). There was a metal door on the wall behind him, a camera in the corner to his front right, and a bright, hanging light directly above him. The red light was blinking, so Sherlock was sure that they were monitoring him and knew he was awake.

But who are 'they'? How did he get here? Sherlock closed his eyes again, relishing the resulting darkness, but before he could even begin to remember, the door slammed opened and two men walked in (_footsteps too heavy and gait too long to be a woman_). Sherlock kept his head lolled forward and eyes closed until one of the men (_probably grunt, had callouses on forefinger and thumb that correlate with consistent use of handguns and knives_) roughly grabbed his chin and jerked it up.

"Come now, Mr. Holmes," a smooth, tenor voice rang out, "what sort of guest tries to fake unconsciousness when we both know you're perfectly awake." Sherlock quickly dropped the pretense of sleep and opened his eyes to see the very man he was looking for leaning casually on the far wall.

He keeps his surprise safely hidden behind sarcasm and wit. "What sort of host knocks their guest unconscious and ties them to a chair?" Sherlock countered, lifting a brow. Stephen Morris, who looked far better than he had in the picture offered by Mycroft, threw his head back and laughed.

"Oh, Mr. Holmes, I was warned of your biting tongue and all-seeing eyes, but no one said anything of your wonderful sense of humour," Stephen drawled with a wide smile and quick wink. He remained where he was, watching Sherlock with careful eyes, but kept his shoulders back and arms in his pockets, an open invitation. So Sherlock complied, his eyes dancing up and down the man's figure. After a minute, Stephen pushed himself off the wall and stepped forward. "So, Mr. Holmes," Sherlock flinched at the too-loud voice, "what do you see?"

Normally, Sherlock would rattle off all of his deductions, gladly belittling any man who stood before him and demanded he performed his 'little trick', as so many had put it. But this time, Sherlock knew he was in danger. Normally, he wouldn't care and do all of it anyways. But this time, Sherlock had John and he was not going to leave John, not willingly. So Sherlock withheld the deeper, darker secrets he'd seen. Instead, he kept to the basics:

"You are Stephen 'Phen' Morris, aka Ruax, not that I gleaned that particular tidbit from you." Stephen smirked, his right arm folding in to support his left as he tugged at his earlobe. "You may deal drugs, but you haven't used for a little more than a year. You were suspicious that you were put under tabs for close to a year and a half, but didn't know for sure until Agent Cooke here," Sherlock violently jerked his chin out of the offending hand, "decided that protecting an up-and-coming drug lord was far more profitable than keeping my brother informed. For the last thirteen weeks, you've been eating and working out to gain back the appearance of your high school days, before you stopped playing lacrosse and dropped out not a month later. You came here to gloat, here being the basement storage room of an abandoned factory that possibly produced canned fish, but more likely was a textile." Sherlock sniffed, looking at the ceiling and then the floor before looking back his captor, whose smirk was steely. "Definitely an old textile factory."

"Well done, Mr.-"

"And I do promise you that if you continue to address me as 'Mr. Holmes', when I am freed I will personally knock you in the jaw so hard you will bite your tongue so hard it bleeds and ends up swollen and useless for anywhere from a week to a month.," Sherlock interrupted sharply.

"'_When'_, Mr. Holmes?" Stephen said slowly, carefully enunciating and overemphasizing each syllable. "What makes you so sure you're going to escape?" Stephen remained looming over Sherlock, the light deepening the shadows beneath his eyes.

"What I don't understand," Sherlock continued, his eyes moving from the man in front of him to the traitor to his side to the camera to the room and back again, "is why you would even come down to gloat." He pinned Stephen with a meaningful glare. "You said you were warned, so you obviously know about my abilities of deduction, and yet you assume that because I lacked to foresight to realize my old dealer was under your direction I am not as good as you were told. Because I assure you," Sherlock's own voice lowered to an almost growl, "I would never make the assumption that because a man was captured he is incapable of escaping."

Stephen, without moving his gaze away from Sherlock, waved to his companion, sending Cooke out the door. As soon as the steel door slammed shut, Stephen reared back and slapped Sherlock across his face one way and then the other. Shaken, and a touch surprised, Sherlock took a few breaths before looking up again.

"Now we're off our high horse, aren't we?" Stephen leaned in and whispered, resting his slightly red right hand on Sherlock's shoulder. _Ambidextrous, interesting._ "And now, I can 'gloat', as you so kindly put it, while you listen _silently_." The threat was laced in that one last word. Sherlock nodded, wordlessly. "Good." Stephen stepped away, slowly walking around Sherlock.

"I don't have some grand plan, Mr. Holmes," Stephen said after a few moments. "I didn't capture you on a whim, don't worry. But I only have a few goals beyond the now. You were just the first step." Stephen let his hand trail up Sherlock's neck, over his head, and down to the other shoulder as he circled round the back. "'Towards what?' you would ask, because no matter how _clever_ you _think_ you are, someone will _always _be one step ahead of you." Stephen pulled on Sherlock's hair before taking a step back, in front of him once more, and spreading his arms wide. "Well. Now that you've had your look and listen, can you guess what I want?" Sherlock remained stoically silent. "No? Well then. I guess your stories were a _bit_ exaggerated.

"Justice and equality! That is all I desire," Stephan said, eyes wide. "Well that and money, but I already have that." He chuckled a bit before his face fell and he grew instantly silent and serious. "But _how_ I get what I want is the hard part. You see, when I was first approached by this … organization run by this man who is, honestly, far too full of himself, I was just some poor sap who was always high on crack or ecstasy. But they showed me just how clever I really was." Sherlock rolled his eyes. _Lord not another Hope dilemma._

"Now, I'm not by any means a genius," Stephen said, right in Sherlock's ear, causing him to flinch away. The man really had no volume control. "Nowhere near a genius, as the boss-man likes to remind me, but I'm clever and quick on my feet. I am creative when it comes to hiding spots for both the distributor and drugs. And I'm quick to talk my way out of a fight." Stephen sighed dramatically, falling back against the wall. "But none of that really counts for much."

Sherlock looked up Stephen. He really did look better than the, obviously outdated, image. He had filled out more, his cheeks and chin fitting him better, and his hair was washed and styled so it had a more business air whilst still being casual and easy to maintain. But it was beyond the skin that really caught Sherlock's eye.

While the man chattered aimlessly, spouting rubbish about injustice and how he's worked his ass off for nothing, Sherlock looked him up and down once more, reviewing his observations. This man was beyond mentally unstable. He grew up in an abusive home: his mother a drunk, his father having left just after he was conceived, and his elder half-brothers and half-sister bullied and belittled him on a daily basis. Stephen barely survived his early years, spending time with 'friends' at their houses where food was actually provided. When in secondary school, Stephen had joined the lacrosse team and became one of the star students. With his siblings out of the house, things were looking up.

But something happened, Sherlock still hasn't worked out what, and it ended with Stephen Morris dropping out of school, living on the streets, and clinically diagnosed with multiple personality disorder all the while heavily addicted to recreational drugs. Looking up at the bright eyes, easy smile, and enthusiastic gestures, Sherlock figured that this Stephen is probably the nicest he could be saddled with during a first meeting.

"But even if I perfect cold fusion, homeless people will never have jetpacks," Stephen finished with a wide, fake smile. Sherlock blinked. Somewhere in his musings, Stephen noticed his inattentiveness. _And didn't like it,_ Sherlock mentally added as he nursed his freshly sore cheek. Stephen shook his hand lightly, hissing before turning and giving a sad smile. "I really didn't want to do that, but you just. Didn't. Listen." Sherlock snapped. He'd had enough.

"Or perhaps you spoke too much, and much too loudly I might add," he spat. "Why is that? Why do you practically yell each word, all decibels higher than necessary?" Sherlock knew he should shut up, he _really_ should, but the dam was broken and it all came rushing out. "Maybe you're just used to yelling for some release from your drunkard whore of a mother and abusive siblings." Stephen's smile dropped entirely and his eyes grew dark. "Or perhaps you have to fight all those other voices in there, screaming and _yelling_ and _begging_ to be let out. You just have to be the _loudest_ to be heard." Sherlock finished, chest heaving. Stephen's gaze had fallen to the ground and he swayed gently where he stood.

"Oh, Mr. Morris," Sherlock added, each word heavily laced with sarcasm. "Don't tell me I broke you."

"No. You didn't break me." Sherlock eyed the man before him carefully. It was still Stephen's voice, but it was rough, more gravelly and worn. Slowly, Stephen's eyes raised from where they rest on the floor and the darkness Sherlock saw there caused him to shiver. "But Stephen's not here right now."

Sherlock held his gaze all the same. "With whom and I speaking then?"

The man before him pulled his lips back into a sneer. "Ruax."

**(A/N: DUN DUN DUNNNN! Don't forget to review.)**


	4. Chapter 4

**(A/N: I upheld a promise I made to a wonderful reviewer and updated ****_Yesterdays_**** before anything else. So now that that's finished, I'm gonna update this. :D YAY! When we left Sherlock, he was facing a new man, almost quite literally. And if you have no idea how bad a pun that was, I suggest you go back and reread the last few chapters. And I'm not just saying that to get better stats. ;3 Anywhooo. Read and enjoy and don't forget to review.)**

John shoved his hands into his pockets, hunching his shoulders against the wind. It wasn't raining yet, but it should soon; John could taste it on the air. So far the night had been fruitless and it was beginning to grate on him. True, he'd only been to one of the two predicted meeting areas, but still at the halfway point with nothing on Sherlock does not make for a happy John Watson.

As soon as John had gotten his goal set, he'd began preparations. Instead of his usual khakis and jumper, John put on fitting jeans, a dark tee, his running shoes, and completed the image with a grey faux hoodie. Without a second thought, John grabbed his gun, checked the clip and safety, cocked it once, and hid it in the waistband of his jeans. He'd set out, locking the door behind him, and quickly jogged to the first area he'd mapped out. It took maybe an hour in itself to scout each street and alleyway in search of Douggie.

Now John was jogging against the biting wind, headed towards the Thames. He stopped for a light, waiting for the road to clear before crossing it, and realized just how long he'd been at it when his stomach decided to speak up. John ignored its grumbling call; he could eat after Sherlock is found. _I never eat when on a case._ John shook his head and struggled to breathe. Any remembrance of the genius caused a sharp pain to John's chest and left him gasping.

John had come to the realization that he cannot function without the detective by his side. And that just strengthened his resolve.

The sun was just beginning to set when John slowed to a stop. He'd reached the edge of his last hope. Exhaling slowly, John set out methodically jogging down each street, checking each alley he passes. He was nearing the end of his search, just teasing the boundary, when he saw a lone figure in the shadows of a particularly deep alley.

John skid to a stop, chest heaving and pulse racing as he looked the man up and down. It was difficult to discern specific details, but the profile definitely matched the picture John had gotten. He took a deep breath. _Show time_.

John approached slowly, keeping his hood up. As he drew nearer, the man shifted uncomfortably before turning to face John whose breath caught. It was Douggie, John was sure now. More confident, John stepped forward, dropping his hood, and gave the man a wide smile.

"Hey mate," John greeted, smothering a giggle as Douggie glanced around looking for another person John could possibly be talking to. Finding no one, he turned back to John and pointed a finger to himself. John nodded.

"Sorry, man," Douggie began, his voice surprisingly high for a man of his stature. Not that it was squeaky; one would just expect something deeper. "I don't know you."

John gave another wide smile. "Of course you don't know me. We've never met." Douggie blinked, obviously confused. "But I know you through one of my friends." John held out his right hand. "John," he offered no last name.

The man cautiously took the proffered limb, his dark complexion heavily contrasted to the John's own slightly tanned one. "Douggie," he didn't extend the courtesy of a surname either. "So what can I do ya' for, John? Any particular reason you're bugging me?" Douggie asked, his face giving no emotion away.

"Came here for a pick-me-up," John began.

"I don't do that anymore," Douggie cut him off. "You get caught once and that's all the incentive you need." John regarded him carefully, eyeing him up and down before scoffing lightly.

"Heh. Never mind." John shook his head and turned away, walking a ways before saying, "I'll just go to Lance a couple streets over." He pulled the name from one of the many cards he'd found. Douggie scrambled forward, grabbing John's right arm. He hid a smile. If there's anything a dealer hates more than a copper, it's losing money to competition.

"Hey. I didn't mean it like that," he huffed. "I'll help you, just…" he glanced around, "not _here._" John nodded and followed as Douggie led them to a small shack a couple of streets over. Once they were inside, Douggie lost his quiet demeanor and began shuffling around and chatting away. "Don't get much business anymore, not since my usual cleaned up. Just saw him today. He was looking quite good for himself, but no more posh than usual." Something in John flared up and in an instant, Douggie was crushed against the wall.

With his right arm securing Douggie, John's left hand quickly checked for any weapons on his person. Upon finding none, he flipped the dealer over and thrust his arm under Douggie's chin, effectively pinning him. "Where is he?" John growled. "What did you do to him?"

Douggie, for all it was worth, remained calm, at least externally. "Who did you say your friend was again?" he asked, looking down at the shorter man.

"Sherlock. Holmes," John hissed. "What happened?" The dealer remained silent. John shook his head, he need to calm down. After glaring at his feet for a few seconds, regaining his composure as best as he could, Captain Watson looked back up at Douggie. "Tell me. Now." The command was clipped, and Douggie flinched, but complied.

"He came to me," the man wheezed, struggling to breathe around John's pressing arm, "but not for drugs. He said something about a drug lord. I don't know anything more." John shook his head and pressed harder.

"Don't lie to me," he hissed. "Don't you _dare_ lie to me." Panic was rising again and his composure slipped.

"I don't know anything!" Douggie insisted, his eyes downcast. "He came and he left!" John shook his head harder and released the dealer, letting him fall to the ground and gasp as his airflow was restored. Pulling out his gun, John leveled it with Douggie's head, turning the safety off. Douggie, still weak and a touch dizzy, stared up at the soldier from the floor with wide eyes. "Tell. Me. The. Truth."

Douggie swallowed thickly. "N-nothing. I don't know anything." John glared at him and leapt forward, grabbing the larger man by his collar and lifting him. Slamming his back against the wall once more, John dug the barrel of his Browning into Douggie's cheek. "H-he left. I-I didn't do a-anything."

John grinned wide, no warmth in his eyes, and pressed the gun against his cheek harder. "If I shot right now, it wouldn't kill you," he stated calmly, conversationally. "You would lose a good bit of blood and your ability to speak, but you wouldn't die. Not then at least." Douggie watched John, fear evident in his eyes. "I would hand you off to Sherlock's brother. Surely you've heard of Mycroft Holmes. No?" John chuckled darkly. "Well, let's just say he holds a 'minor' position in the British government and would be very grateful to get the chance to talk with the last man who saw his little brother."

Douggie was trembling now. "W-what would he do to m-me?" John's smile grew wider, although it looked like he was baring his teeth more so than grinning.

"Let's just say that I would be the last to see you." The ultimatum in the air, and Douggie having pissed himself, John released his grip on the soiled man's shirt but kept the gun dug into his cheek. "Now let's try this one more time. Where is Sherlock? What did you do to him?"

Douggie's eyes rapidly moved from side to side, staring into John's merciless ones, and slowly lowered his head in defeat. "I know Mycroft. He's the one who got me arrested for possession a good number of years ago. At least that's what Sherlock told me when I saw him after I got out." John watched Douggie, taking note of every shift and movement, ensuring he was telling the truth. "After that, I made sure to have the drugs not on my person and kept dealing to Sherlock till he suddenly stopped coming a few years ago." So far the man's story matched up with Mycroft's.

"After Sherlock dropped off the map, I lost all my income. I was quickly sinking until one day this lanky, jumpy lad approached me and offered to supply my business. At first, I was skeptical and more than a bit put off. There was no way I could repay this kid for the drugs, I didn't have any clients." Douggie took a deep breath. "But, after telling him of my lack of business, he simply laughed and told me that was why he'd offered. He promised to show me the best picking spots and how to tell if a person is trustworthy or trouble and that if I took him up on his deal I'd be far wealthier than ever before." Douggie shook his head and chuckled softly. "He followed up on that promise, delivered all he'd said, and I began working for him."

John's mind was racing. "Did this kid have a name?"

"He didn't give me his real name, that much is obvious," Douggie shook his head again.

"What name did he give you?"

The dealer looked up at John, fear still evident, but not because of John this time. "Ruax," he all but whispered, simultaneously sealing his death warrant.

**(A/N: Boom. BAMF John has emerged. And what is it with me ending chapters with the name? I don't know... adds tension I suppose. :3)**


	5. Chapter 5

**(A/N: And because this one is so small, two updates in one go. Merry Christmas or Happy Holidays or whatever. :D)**

Sherlock shivered and curled in on himself, relishing the coolness of the concrete beneath him. It had been several hours since Stephen was replaced with Ruax and most of it was a continuous haze of pain. Sherlock had been right in his assumption that Stephen was the best one to meet first. Ruax had no qualms when it came to physical punishment, obviously preferring it to actual communication.

Sherlock flinched when he breathed too deep. Sighing lightly, because sighing heavily would cause him more pain, Sherlock spread out and began mentally cataloguing his injuries. _Heavy blows to face and chest causing heavy bruising as well as cracked and a few broken ribs. Lacerations on back, arms, and face from a combination of jewelry, pulling on bindings, and being struck with whips and, ironically, a riding crop. _Sherlock almost chuckled, but instead shivered again.

Ruax had gladly relieved him of his jacket and shirt, leaving his chest bare, and the cold coupled with the damp was getting to Sherlock. He felt a growing sense of dread. For the first time since the pool and Moriarty, Sherlock had no plan of escape. He was stuck and could see no way out. Not on his own and especially not if Ruax remained in charge.

Closing his eyes, Sherlock escaped to his mind palace. It wasn't much help in the situation, but it was a comfort. _Sentiment_, he scoffed mentally. _But that's okay._ And it was. Ever since John, at least. Sherlock had been so alone before, and it hadn't bothered him because he didn't know the difference. But now he knew. He knew what it was like to be wanted, cared for, and worried over. Now he knew what it was like to enjoy another's company by just being himself.

Now he knew what it was like to love.

Because he did. Sherlock loved John. His beautiful, strong, impossibly interesting John. John who followed without question and defended without thought. John who actually gave a damn over Sherlock's wellbeing. _John_ whose kind smile and warm, blue eyes and easy laugh had haunted Sherlock's thoughts and dreams for a while now.

John who could never possibly love him back… After all, who could possibly love a broken, arrogant, cruel addict?

But that was okay. Sherlock still got to be with him. And if friendship was all they were going to have, it was enough. Just being with John was enough.

So Sherlock entered his mind palace and went to the wing made just for John, which held a surprising (well, not all that surprising) likeness to 221B, and found comfort in those memories and in the confidence that this magnificent mystery of a man will most certainly be his savior.

Sherlock fell asleep to the thought, _John will save me again. John will find me. John, John, John._

**(A/N: *sigh* Yeah. I'm gonna let you guys have some time to let that simmer. }:] bwa. ha ha. ha ha. freaking ha.)**


	6. Chapter 6

**(A/N: PREPARE FOR RAPIDFIRE UPDATES! This is the Christmas Eve update and you'll get one on Christmas day and then Boxing day. You lucky, lucky readers. :D)**

John marched up the stairs into 221B, which was eerily quiet without the detective. _There it is again: that sharp pain I get in my chest whenever I think about Sherlock_. He swallowed any thoughts as to why their separation hurt so much and rubbed his chest. John needed to focus on the issue at hand.

He had gotten the full story from Douggie, who gladly answered all of John's questions once he'd uttered Ruax's name. John supposes that Douggie knew that either way he wouldn't escape unscathed, so he chose the lesser of the two evils. Or so he'd thought. Because Douggie figured that if he told John, that John would put him under protection. And John did… in a way. He handed Douggie off to Mycroft. No one will be able to get to Douggie at the very least.

In any case, John learned that part of Ruax's deal is that if Sherlock ever came to Douggie again, he needed to incapacitate the young detective and call Ruax. Douggie did. Ruax told him to take Sherlock to the intersection of Savoy Place and Savoy Street. There a white, rented van picked the unconscious man up and drove off. It was at that point that John began badgering Douggie for any detail he could remember about the van. He gladly complied.

As soon as John felt he had gotten as much as he could with just intimidation and a gun, John stepped out and called up Mycroft, giving him his location. Not too much later, the usual nondescript black luxury car arrived and opened to reveal a completely composed Mycroft Holmes; the only sign of his rush was the lack of his customary umbrella. John quickly relayed all information Douggie had provided and then handed over the dealer himself. Mycroft looked down at the, only slightly, shorter man with a heady mixture of disgust and unbridled rage.

Back at the flat, John toed his shoes off and removed the soaked hoodie (the heavens decided to let go on his walk home). John shuffled into the empty kitchen to make one cup of tea (had to put the second back in the cabinet) and then went and sat in his chair to stare at Sherlock's empty one (another sharp pain in his chest) as he waited for Mycroft's promised call.

Two minutes of silence was all John could take before he was up and pacing, empty mug clenched in his trembling hands. He couldn't handle it. He honestly couldn't handle knowing that Sherlock was somewhere and couldn't get out. He couldn't handle being on his own. He couldn't handle life without Sherlock.

John had to sit down again, the realization hitting him hard. Not that he couldn't live without Sherlock, no. He'd become accustomed to live with Sherlock, so one would assume that the withdrawal would be painful, but John would heal and get over it. But that's not true. Somehow in the year or so that John's lived at 221B, Sherlock had integrated into John's life: his past, present, and future.

John _literally_ could not imagine his life without Sherlock. _But __**why**__?_

John stopped and thought for a minute. Sherlock had become a necessity. Fine. John can work with that. Since Sherlock, John couldn't keep a relationship for more than a week. And it wasn't always Sherlock's fault they broke up. _Well at least not directly. _John always, _always_, put Sherlock first. Over friends, over girlfriends, over patients, even over family. _Does that make him special?_

Something inside of John whispered, _Yes_.

A feeling was building in John's gut, as if he were on the verge of a great discovery. But just as he was about to grasp the oncoming epiphany, his mobile rang, it's tinkling tune loud and shrill. _Mycroft._ John hastily grabbed it and answered.

"Mycroft," he said breathlessly. "Give me what you've got."

Mycroft made a sound of assent and quickly began relaying all information. Based upon Douggie's descriptions, Mycroft was able to find the company that rented the van and then was able to track its progress via the plates and CCTV.

"John," Mycroft stated seriously. "I believe I have triangulated Sherlock's current location." John's heart almost stopped. After hours of waiting and not knowing and searching and _yearning_, John finally had Sherlock close at hand once again. "But I cannot condone you going in on your own."

A growl ripped past John's lips, unbidden. "Mycroft. You _cannot _stop me." Blood pounded in his ears, nearly blocking out Mycroft's sigh.

"I'm not saying I will keep you from going in," he explained slowly. "I just want to ensure your safety by sending you in with a small team of specially trained professionals. NOT that I'm saying you are incapable of successfully infiltrating the building and rescuing my brother," Mycroft added just as John was about to protest again. Mycroft sighed again, but this one was more of a release than a nonverbal showing of distaste. "I am thinking of both you and Sherlock, John. Both his physical and mental safety." Mycroft stopped, as if gathering his thoughts. "I do believe you mean more to my brother than I had initially anticipated. You have become… essential."

John wasn't sure whether to be excited, offended, or confused at that last statement, so instead he chose to focus on what he did know. "How many men? And I _will_ be in charge of the operation. Understand Mycroft?"

Another sigh, this one definitely sarcastic. "I'd expect no less from you, John."

* * *

Sherlock was awoken by a heavy blow to his face. Instantly, he curled farther into himself, tucking his head beneath his arms and knees, but was tugged back into a kneeling position by firm fingers in his wet hair. _Wet?_ Sherlock's mind began working slowly, his subconscious still groggy from sleep. _Must've dumped water on me first._ Sherlock shivered hard, wincing when it stretched his ribs. _Cold water,_ he concluded.

"C'mon, you piece of scum," a deep voice growled. "Get up. Ruax wants to see you." Sherlock almost chuckled. It seems that Cooke has made a reappearance. "I don't have time for your layin' about," he insisted, emphasizing his point with another swift kick.

"I assure you that bodily harm is not an efficient way of ensuring my cooperation," Sherlock sneered from where he was, again, curled into a ball on the floor. His sharp tongue earned him another blow to his ribs. Sherlock couldn't help but cry out, causing Cooke to laugh. The brutes wheezing guffaws were enough incentive for Sherlock to lift his head and pin him with a sharp glare. "They will come, I will be saved, and you will have to face the wrath of probably the most important man in the world."

Cooke chuckled again before sneering, "An' who is that? Your brother? Hah! I'm not afraid of him!" It was Sherlock's turn to chuckle, wincing at each sharp inhale.

"No, not Mycroft. He's a lazy toad content on wallowing in the comfort of his office." Cooke face fell and he looked slightly confused. "No. You'll face the wrath of my flatmate." Cooke almost laughed again until he saw the look of pure confidence in his eyes.

"It don't matter who you think is gonna come," Cooke instead spat. "They ain't finding this place." Sherlock simply rolled his eyes and slowly got to his feet. Cooke gave a toothy grin and pulled out two sets of shackles and a strip of dirty, disgusting cloth that Sherlock assumed would be used as a blindfold. Moments, and a couple of well-placed punches, later Sherlock was cuffed and blindfolded. "Right this way, _sir_," Cooke spat, tugging sharply on the connecting chain.

Sherlock stumbled, wincing at his aches and pains, but kept his head high and jaw firm in a way that was much like his doctor. He was going to see his captor and, if the mode of transportation was anything to go by, it would almost assuredly be Ruax that he'd have to face. Taking a deep breath, Sherlock calmed his slowly fraying nerves and found himself hoping, once again, that John would be here soon.


	7. Chapter 7

**(A/N: Let it be known that I know nothing of the London layout or if this building even exists. All proper street names I've pulled from Google maps. And even then I'm probably butchering it. :3 Forgive me and my American self.)**

The door was opened when they reached the end of the corridor, Sherlock could tell from the distinct _lack_ of the sound of hinges and locks. However, the door was swiftly closed behind him and, after a moment, Sherlock lifted his still shackled hands to remove the blindfold. With sharp eyes, he took in his surroundings.

It's not the same room as before, but it is one very similar. They hadn't used any stairs nor lifts on their way, so his cell is also located in the basement of the textile factory. However, this ground was dirt instead of concrete, so Sherlock's chains were looped through some rings on the stone wall opposite of the large metal door. And he was alone.

Seeing the opportunity, Sherlock crouched to the ground and grabbed a small handful of the dirt. His fingers picked through the soil, noting the vegetable decomposition, minerals, and texture of the grains. He quickly lifted a small amount to his mouth and rolled the gritty substance over his tongue. _Distinct iron taste, which could be the result of weathering on the structure, but also leaves a thick consistency when mixed with saliva. _Sherlock spat the grime back onto the floor and stood, dusting his hands off. _That coupled with the simple grasses and strangely dry texture means that this building could only be in one place: Soho._

Sherlock groaned aloud. _Why did it have to be Soho?_ He hated Soho for some indescribable reason. Now that he knew, even the air began to taste disgusting. Just as he began to plan his daring escape, the door unlocked and began to open.

Sherlock quickly lowered himself to the ground, crossing his legs and leaning against the cold wall. They still hadn't given him his shirt back. The door opened to its widest and in stepped Ruax, eyes alight with anticipation and a sneer firmly set in place. Sherlock exhaled slowly through his nose. He'd have to be careful in what he says if he wants to get an advantage over Ruax, if he wants his plan to work.

"Well, well, well," the man's voice was just as gravelly as the last time and just as loud as his counterpart. "Lookie here at Mr. Holmes, all beaten and broken and bleeding." Another similarity between the personalities is the infuriating consistency to call Sherlock 'Mr. Holmes'. He is more than positive at this point that it is done specifically to annoy him. "I quite enjoy this view," Ruax sneered. Sherlock just silently watched from the floor, waiting for the right moment.

"Cooke told me of your reluctance to join me today. I suppose that makes sense, but your actions just means that whatever kindness I was going to show you is gone now." Ruax's voice was cold, as if he were stating facts about the natural flora and fauna of London instead of how he would be showing no mercy to his prisoner. "Now, let's begin with the simple questions."

The next hour was filled with so many different levels of pain in a range of intensities. With each wound, bruise, scar inflicted Ruax would smile, a mad gleam in his green eyes, and Sherlock would do nothing, say nothing, except to cry out in pain. Except to scream. It had reached a point of desperation for Ruax, Sherlock could see it in his eyes. Sherlock wasn't talking and Ruax would have to change tactics.

"Still remaining stoically silent, eh?" Ruax chuckled, dark and deep. "Well I suppose physical persuasion isn't really cutting it then, no pun intended," Ruax snickered at his little joke and pressed a firm finger into an open, oozing wound. Sherlock recoiled and let out a rasping cry, trying and failing to pull away, to get the digging finger out. "Perhaps I should try something more personal then." Sherlock made an effort not to flinch or tense or give any indication that, when trying to break the great detective, emotional and psychological trauma was the way to go.

Ruax's smile grew wider, all teeth and malice. He withdrew his finger, carelessly wiping the blood off with Sherlock's pants leg. "Now, let's see," Ruax narrowed his eyes, pretending to ponder. "Wow," he laughed humorlessly, "I am honestly having a difficult time finding someone whose demise could be used against you. What a lonely existence you have, Mr. Holmes." Sherlock kept his eyes trained on Ruax in a last-ditch effort to convince the man to stop. "But if I remember correctly, Cooke mentioned a brother," Sherlock kept still, "a landlady," didn't even blink, "some Scotland Yard Detective Inspector," not a muscle, "and one Doctor John Watson." Sherlock flinched involuntarily.

"Jackpot," Ruax's grin grew wide once more. Half turning, he snapped his fingers towards the open door and a file was placed in his open palm. "Let's see what we have here," Ruax sneered, flipping open the manila folder. "Ooh. Captain of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers; toured in Afghanistan three times and was halfway through his fourth when he was shot through the left shoulder by an enemy sniper; invalided home, with honorable discharge, where he visited his therapist and refused to fill prescribed antidepressants for three months until he just stopped showing up entirely about a year ago."

Sherlock's eyes grew wide. He didn't know about the prescribed antidepressants. He should've seen it, but somehow in the whirlwind of the case and the cabbie and the _mystery_ of John he'd missed that ever-so significant detail.

Ruax continued, not noticing the detective's look of surprise. "Hmm. Bit of a looker, this one," he mused, pulling out a picture and waving it in Sherlock's face before glancing back at it. "I bet he does well with the birdies." This time only Sherlock's jaw tightened and Ruax _did_ notice that. "Aha. He does, doesn't he? And it just eats you up inside seeing him gallivanting around with those petty creatures, feeding them attention instead of you." Ruax's grin widened when he saw Sherlock's face. "Oh. I see. Oh-HO!"

Tossing away the folder, Ruax leaned in towards the chained detective. "You _love_ him, don't you?" Sherlock swallowed, keeping his eyes clear and cold. "This is just too sweet," Ruax emphasized each word with a jab to Sherlock's chest, hitting a wound each time. "You have finally found someone who can live with you and you had to go and fall for the poor bastard." Sherlock swallowed thickly and fought the urge to turn his gaze to the floor. _That would be a sign of defeat. I must show no weakness. I must be strong for John._

"You do know that he can never love you back, right?" Ruax leaned in close and hissed in Sherlock's ear. "You're broken and twisted and _stink_ of desperation." Sherlock's eyes remained stoically open, but he began shaking his head. _No._ "Ever the addict, unable to stay away from anything that could create a _buzz_ in your veins and yet still craving drugs all the same." Ruax's voice was steadily growing in volume. "NO ONE could possibly _love_ YOU! Especially not a good man like John _fucking_ WATSON!"

Sherlock slowly closed his eyes and lowered his head in defeat. You cannot argue with the truth; that would be denial. Only the disillusioned fall prey to denial.

"Ah. There it is." Ruax was practically beaming now. "Now that you know your place in your relationship, let's see how much we can do to him before you break." Sherlock's head snapped up, eyes burning with something akin to rage.

"If you touch one _hair_ on John's head," Sherlock growled. Ruax silenced him with a left hook. _Considerably stronger than right hook, _Sherlock noted as he spat blood to the ground._ Ruax is left-handed whilst Stephen is ambidextrous. _"Interesting," he murmured.

Ruax chuckled darkly again, threading his right hand through Sherlock's slick curls and tugging sharply. "_What_ could you possibly find amusing?" Ruax spat, popping the 'p'.

_Now or never._ "I said, 'Interesting', not amusing," Sherlock spat, glaring at his captor. "You would know that if you had a brain cell to your name. Unfortunately it seems you've been cursed with an intelligence that is _below_ Anderson himself, a phenomenon never before seen in this day and age." Ruax, a tad slow on processing Sherlock's most recent insult, gave a delayed pull on Sherlock's follicles. "Bit of a shame, really. The fact that Stephen and Phen got all the smarts. But that wasn't much to begin with," Sherlock added with a sneer that quickly turned into a grimace when Ruax released a volley of fists and feet.

Sherlock was left wheezing on the floor with barely enough give in the chains to let him curl into a ball. His dear doctor is going to have his work cut out for him when he saves Sherlock. Where before the injuries were mostly internal and light bruising, Sherlock now had a broken nose, a few fractured fingers, and a black eye that was almost completely swollen shut. Ruax didn't give him much time to recuperate. Sherlock found himself being lifted to his knees by his hair.

"How could you _possibly_ know about Phen?" Ruax hissed, his teeth grazing the shell of Sherlock's ear. "I'm surprised you knew that there was more than Stephen in the first place, but no one has seen Phen in close to five years!" Sherlock couldn't help but chuckle slightly. "WHAT?!"

"I guessed," he laughed. "Stephen was ambidextrous and you are left-handed. That only leaves Phen, the third name on your file, to be right-handed. But there was no evidence to back up the theory. So I guessed." Sherlock laughed again, harsh and clipped as if what he was laughing at wasn't really funny. "You told me the rest that I needed to know."

"What?" Ruax was taken aback, bewildered, utterly confused. No matter which way you cut it, Sherlock had surprised the sadistic maniac through the use of guesswork and tricky assumptions.

Sherlock peered up at the frozen man, eyes glittering with unbridled malice. "So, Ruax, let's see how far I need to delve into your horrifically traumatic past before Phen gains control."

**(A/N: MERRY FREAKING CHRISTMAS! I hope you enjoyed this... slightly short chapter. :D Don't forget to review. [Oh, and Happy Holidays if you're not so much into Christmas])**


	8. Chapter 8

**(A/N: Sorry for my absence. Christmas, life, and I GOT A JOB! So it took a bit. Happy new years to all who waited and reviewed, but specifically to Sparticus328 whose wonderful review pushed me to finish this chapter. HAPPY FREAKING NEW YEAR AND MERRY FEELS!)**

John checked and double checked his gear. There was no room for mistakes. Not when it came to Sherlock. A bit self-conscious, John pulled up his dark jeans and tugged at the bottom of his black turtleneck. It was a far cry from his comfortable jumpers and loose trousers, but needs be.

A quick survey of his surroundings and John nodded, content. The team that Mycroft had assembled was surprisingly acceptable. They were specially trained in stealth and infiltration and were experts in multiple fighting styles and with multiple weapons. They had obviously been briefed and knew the situation as well as John's professional and personal standing in the matter. While nothing was explicitly said, John had noticed the looks sent his way, a colorful range from questioning to piteous to admiring.

Apparently Mycroft had also given the troops a peek into John's military background as well for one of the men approached John. Giving a sharp salute, he greeted, "Captain." John sighed and rolled his eyes.

"Just Doctor Watson or John is fine," he said steadily, returning the salute. "What do you need-?"

"Lieutenant Mulder, Captain," the man nodded and dropped his arm. "Permission to speak freely, sir."

John rolled his eyes. _Bloody special ops and their inability to listen to simple requests._ "Permission granted on the stipulation that you address me as Doctor Watson or John, Lieutenant," John said sternly. The man nodded again, face reddening slightly.

"Thank you Ca- John." Mulder's grey eyes moved down and away before back up to John's. "It's just that I am a fan of your blog," John smiled (he always liked meeting a fan although none could top the Queen), "and I can tell from what you've written that Sherlock is important to you."

"Very much so, yes," John interjected with a soft smile.

Mulder nodded again, running a hand through his short, dark hair. "But the lengths you've gone through to find him, and the way you write about him in your stories, it just seems that there might be something… more." The man grew red and nervously rubbed his hands together before firmly clasping them behind his back as he fell into parade rest. "I don't mean to intrude, Doctor Watson," John readily took note of the sudden formality, "but I cannot help to wonder if there is something more between you two." John exhaled slightly in understanding.

It was the same question and assumption that everyone ended up asking: if there was something more between John and Sherlock. More often than not, despite John's adamant protests, most assumed that they were, at least, dating if not shagging like rabbits. Upon first becoming acquainted with Sherlock, and therein the assumption, John had verbally insisted that he wasn't Sherlock's date or even gay. But as time passed, and people continued to think much the same, John ceased denying it aloud. However, for the first time, John met the question with a deeper understanding of his and Sherlock's relationship and, therefore, a different response to the same query.

"I'm going to be honest with you, Lieutenant," John spoke softly. "These past few days has been very enlightening to me. Where before I would adamantly insist that Sherlock and I were nothing more than mates, I am now questioning it myself. I've had plenty of time to reflect when I wasn't worrying or searching and I've not quite reached a conclusion myself, but I have found the edge of an answer." John took a small step towards the taller man and lay his left hand on Mulder's shoulder. "To tell the truth, I don't know. I used to think not, but now… I just don't know." John looked up sheepishly. "Does that answer your question?"

Mulder nodded, eyes wide. John smiled.

"Good. Now, I am assuming you are in charge of this team," John practically barked, falling back into his role as Captain and leader of the mission. Mulder stood at attention and responded with a sharp 'yes sir.' "Right. Tell me, what is the plan of action Lieutenant?"

* * *

Sherlock hung limp against the chains, the weight of his sore body pulling on his already bleeding wrists. He gasped for breath, sweat trickling down the planes of his body. Ruax stood before him, muscles tensed and chest heaving, his manic gaze trained on his prisoner before him. Sherlock was indeed a sight to see.

Before he was covered in bruises and lacerations and had a few broken bones, yet Sherlock's pale eyes were burning with purpose and intrigue. Now, those iridescent orbs were dulled and unfocused. For the last few hours, Sherlock had been throwing insult after insult, ones that were sure to sting if Sherlock's deductions were accurate (which they almost always are), but Ruax didn't cower. Instead he retaliated with anger, rage, and more blows to Sherlock.

Then Sherlock ran out of ammunition and Ruax took his chance to reestablish himself in control. He quickly began battering Sherlock with accusations and images of John leaving and not really liking him and how his caring and worrying and protecting was all an act. It hurt Sherlock more than he would ever admit. He valued John's companionship and loved the fact that he cared for the unruly detective, but was achingly aware of how difficult he could be. John was the first person to _stay_ and Sherlock, although he hated to admit it, was petrified that it was all an act.

That was possibly one of the main reasons why that night in the pool still haunted his memories, still haunted his nightmares.

Ruax threw accusation after scenario at Sherlock of how John would come to senses and leave and Sherlock would be alone again and forevermore for who could stand to live with such a slob. Sherlock tried to fight back, to snarl and spit insults, but his heart wasn't in it. Soon Sherlock just hung there, defenses shattered, and took each insult and blow as they came.

Just when he was about to give up on his endeavor of bringing out Morris's third, and hopefully final, personality, Sherlock had a sudden surge of insight. Usually with MPD, the personalities are brought on by psychological trauma and each personality deals with each attack differently. Stephen dealt with anger and insult by letting it roll off his shoulders; he would laugh and plot your demise later that evening. Obviously born of a need to survive every-day attacks. Ruax would immediate retaliate with rage and physical punishment; he was born of pain. That leaves Phen to be the original, broken man. Sherlock needed to reach him not through abuse, but through kindness and sympathy.

"HE WOULD _NEVER_ STAY WILLINGLY! I'M ALMOST POSITIVE THAT YOUR _DEAR _DOCTOR WATSON DID IN FACT TAKE THE BRIBE YOUR BROTHER OFFERED!" Ruax was screaming now, spittle flying. Sherlock flinched from the comment, but lifted his head and calmly held his gaze.

"I pity you," Sherlock rasped and Ruax stuttered to silence. "You were abandoned by your father, scorned by your mother, and abused by your siblings." Ruax's mouth clicked shut and his eyes grew wide. He wasn't sure how to react to that. "I know how it feels, in a way. Both my mother and father were too busy with their work to spend any time with me." Sherlock was surprised to find himself being quite honest. "I at least had my brother, for a little while."

Ruax had pulled back, his hands falling to his side and swinging slightly. His eyes were wide, mouth slightly slack, and Sherlock watched as Ruax seemed to slowly pull into himself.

"Then I was alone, _just_ like you," Sherlock continued. "But I chose to cope with drugs." Ruax's pupils began to dilate and his head began to tilt downward. "Then my brother came back with a vengeance and forced me into rehab. I was miserable." Ruax began to sway slightly from side to side, head down. "And then I found a purpose." Sherlock dropped his own gaze, eyes glazed. "And then I found John. _My_ John."

Ruax had fallen to his knees, head resting on his lap. Sherlock knew that he had Stephen Morris right in his grasp. With a wide, toothy grin, Sherlock lifted his head and, for the first time since Ruax had entered the room, stood to his full height. Hissing in pain, Sherlock pinned the man before him with an icy stare and spoke.

"Hello Phen."

**(A/N: Things are picking up. I'll begin switching POV more often. See ya soon!)**


	9. Chapter 9

**(A/N: Sorry about my absence. I got carried away by new and older stories and I was struggling to write this action. I hope it turned out okay and that you guys like it. :) Thanks for all your support and reviews and faves. Things just got serious.)**

John leaned over one of the chairs to stare at a monitor. The building before them was aged and rusty. Most of the windows were shattered and even more were simply boarded over. It was three levels, two above ground and one below. The patrol was predictable and shouldn't be an issue, if they timed it right. The building had been monitored for two days to gather all necessary information to ensure success. Two days that John had been awaiting Mycroft's call informing him that the team was on their way to 221B. Two days of pure agony.

The plan was basic undetected infiltration: the team would split into three groups, one for each exit, and sneak their way in trying their best not to cause any causalities. The goal was to get Sherlock out with as few deaths as possible. John would be at the head of the smallest group, a total of four operatives including himself, as they entered through the basement door.

Initially John was going to be part of the largest group as they tackled the front door, but John had figured that it was most likely Sherlock was being held underground so he volunteered for the group hitting the basement entrance. Either way, John was ready to have Sherlock back and itching to go save him.

As the sun began to set, the team jumped into action, readying their gear and reviewing the plan once more. Finally, once the sun had fallen behind the horizon and its last rays died out, they exited the van and snuck their way to the old textile factory. The building was surrounded by a crumbling brick wall, where they took refuge before breaking off into the three teams. John silently signaled for the other two groups to go ahead before motioning for his to follow him. Readjusting his grip on his weapon and swallowing nervously, John took the first steps towards Sherlock.

_I'm coming Sherlock,_ John promised silently. _And once I find you, I'll never let you go again._

* * *

Sherlock watched the man before him carefully. He had already figured out that Phen was the original, but he had no idea how he would actually react to different stimuli. He decided to begin with something simple.

"Phen," Sherlock said softly, keeping his eyes hard. "I need you to stand up for me, Phen." The man, still curled in on himself on the floor, shuddered but didn't otherwise move. "Please, Phen. For me?" A slight shake of the head. Okay. So kind coaxing wouldn't work. "That was not a choice, Phen. Stand up now." No movement. Sherlock grit his teeth. "NOW, STEPHEN!" With a quiet whimper, Phen lurched to his feet, head still downcast. Sherlock's eyes narrowed. _Not enough data._ "Tell me what's wrong, Phen." Silence. "Don't. Make. Me. Ask. Twice."

"Nothing is wrong," the man muttered. Sherlock inhaled sharply in surprise.

"I know you're lying, Phen. Look at me when I speak to you," Sherlock ordered, keeping his voice sharp and his words biting. Phen finally looked up, but kept his gaze focused on Sherlock's naked chest instead of his face. "Now. Tell me again, what is wrong Phen?"

"I…" Phen paused, swallowing audibly. "I know why we captured you." Sherlock blinked. Phen's voice was hoarse and he lisped slightly, but the detail of most note was his volume. Where Stephen and Ruax both seemed incapable of speaking at a normal decibel, Phen seemed incapable of speaking above a whisper. _Overcompensation, then,_ Sherlock noted dryly. But this little tidbit that Phen seems to be holding close to his chest is far more interesting. Very interesting indeed.

Sherlock finally allowed himself the courtesy of deducing Phen's face. His eyes remained downcast, despite Sherlock's requests, and his brows seemed permanently furrowed with worry creating creases that will mark the young man's face. Phen's lips are pressed into a thin line, as if he's trying to keep from speaking, and his breathing was almost silent, as if he'd been "trained" to not make any sort of noise. Sherlock felt a flash of pity for the echo of a man before him. What sort of existence did he have to endure before he became this empty shell?

But Sherlock had no time for such sentiment. He needed answers. He needed to escape. He needed John. Sherlock shook his head. _Focus._

"Phen." The man flinched. "Why am I here? What do they need me for?" Sherlock urged, twisting and bending in an effort to catch Phen's eye.

"I can't tell you. If I do they'll be mad and won't let me out ever again. And I don't want to be stuck in the dark anymore," Phen said, growing frantic. He began to twitch and wriggle and took a few steps away from Sherlock.

Sherlock knew better than to try and tease or goad Phen into speaking. That would just bring back Stephen or, worse still, Ruax. _Sympathy brought the boy out and he responds to direct orders,_ Sherlock recounted silently. The issue was getting him to openly speak about something off-limits. Drawing a blank, Sherlock paced back and forth, as much as the restrictive chains and his own wounds would let him, angrily scrubbing at his head in hopes of stimulating a solution.

Growing frustrated, Sherlock yelled in aggravation, causing Phen to flinch, which in turn just upset Sherlock more. _Anger isn't helping the situation,_ Sherlock mentally chastised. _Think, THINK, __**THINK**__! What would John do? … John. _Sherlock stared at the floor, absently rubbing his chest. _John… JOHN! _Hit with a sudden thought, Sherlock's head snapped up and he grinned. He has to handle it like John would: with his quiet Captain voice.

"Phen, tell me why," Sherlock ordered. The man frantically shook his head, lips still firmly pressed together. _No. Dammit,_ Sherlock thought, hissing in frustration. _I must channel John. _Sherlock slowly lowered himself into a sitting position. _John…_ Closing his eyes, Sherlock entered his mind palace once more, dashing to John's wing.

There he found albums full of John's different expressions, pages dedicated to just how his eyebrows contort or how his mouth purses or stretches into a thin line. There was a laptop filled with videos of John running with Sherlock, fighting for Sherlock, complimenting Sherlock, laughing with Sherlock, smiling at Sherlock… There were books filled with page upon page of things John has said and things Sherlock has thought about his beloved doctor. There was a filing cabinet that was full of John's family (living or otherwise), John's old friends (army, college, childhood), and John acquaintances (those that disliked or hated him were marked with red stickers).

Sherlock looked about the mental 221B flat and smiled. It even smelt of John.

He moved over to John's armchair and carefully sat, breathing deeply and just absorbing the John all around him.

Seconds passed by and Sherlock opened his eyes, ready to give it another go. He remained seated and called up to Phen who was huddled in the corner, "Why don't you come over here and sit with me, Phen?" Sherlock used his best "Doctor Watson" voice and gave his kindest smile (the one that John reserves specially for him), patting the ground in front of him. Phen looked on warily, but nodded slowly before sitting down carefully. Sherlock gave another reassuring smile. Phen cautiously smiled back.

_The game is on._


	10. Chapter 10

**(A/N: Hay! I'm baaack! And so soon. :0 Don't worry. In a moment you'll see why. LATERS! *runs for the hills*[replies to guest reviews at end])**

Sherlock bit back a snarl. He'd been asking Phen random questions that did not relate in any way to the current situation. And, as a result, he'd become Phen's therapist, having to listen to him talk about his misfortune and issues and mental instability and then having to actually respond with sympathy and kindness. It was sickening and Sherlock was quickly losing patience.

Phen, who was currently blabbing about some incident he must have experienced whilst high, at least was now looking Sherlock in the eye. And more recently, he'd begun to deviate from the depressing and give small anecdotes of more pleasant times. So Phen was opening up. That was good.

_I have no bloody idea how John handles people,_ Sherlock thought with a frown as he pretended to listen to Phen talk about how his friend Joey did something-or-other. Phen noticed the frown and stopped.

"Sorry, sorry," he mumbled, pulling his legs up and wrapping his arms around them. "I'm sorry for what I did." Sherlock, realizing his mistake, gave a smile. He'd need to think quickly if he doesn't want to lose all that progress. Especially considering Sherlock was running out of energy, probably a byproduct of his extensive injuries and the emotional downpour, and Phen was running out of time. Stephen or Ruax could take control at any second.

"No," Sherlock reassured softly, still thinking strongly of John's warm eyes and steady hands. "You don't need to apologize. You didn't do anything wrong. I-" Sherlock searched for a plausible reason for his frown, "I was just thinking that if this Joey is the same Joey that watched you get physically assaulted, then perhaps you shouldn't associate with him." Sherlock finished with a nod and small smile. _That would work. _

Phen gave a weak smile in return, slowly lowering his arms. "Oh, I don't have to worry about Joey anymore," he said a touch louder than usual. "He was taken care of." Sherlock blinked.

"Who 'took care of' Joey?" Sherlock asked cautiously. Phen snapped his mouth shut and turned his gaze to his hands twisting in his lap. "Phen," Sherlock called softly. "Look at me Phen." He slowly lifted his eyes to meet Sherlock's. "Good. Now, Phen, do you trust me?" Phen nodded. "Then tell me, Phen." Phen's eyes dropped back to his lap and he swallowed audibly. But he still said nothing.

"Was it Stephen, Phen?" Sherlock prompted. He shook his head. "Ruax?" Another shake. "Was it you?" Shake. "Well who was it, Phen?"

"M-Moriarty," Phen whispered and Sherlock's blood froze. _Moriarty… Moriarty… Moriarty…_ echoed in his mind as he felt the world drop away beneath him. Phen glanced up and saw Sherlock's wide eyes. Instantly he turned remorseful, nearly bursting into tears. "I'm sorry, Sherlock. I'm sorry. I really didn't want to tell you because then you'd hate me for letting them take you because I know that Moriarty wants you and John and if we had _you_ then John would follow and it was so easy and I'm sorry!"

_Moriarty wants you and John… and John… John would follow… so easy…_

_Wants you and John… John would follow… so easy…_

Wants John… follow… easy…

John…

Sherlock fell forward and was unconscious before his head hit the ground with a sickening _CRACK!_

**(A/N: I know it's a tease. I wrote it and figured 'why the hell not'? So here ya go. :/Guest: I am honored that it has become one of your favorite stories. I really am. And I would ****_never_**** abandon one of my stories. I may be stuck and I may not update for a while, but I will never abandon them. And thank you for your kind words. Here's an update. }:]**

**AmelieRoseHolmes: As it may be apparent, I did write more (and I shall continue to do so). And I did update (hope you liked this one too). Thank you so much for saying such kind things. I never know what to say beyond thank you because I just write and never expect these sort of compliments and I almost always end up blushing like a fool. So thank you again and again.**

**That's all for now. Until next time.)**


	11. Chapter 11

**(A/N: I felt bad about leaving you with that last chapter, so, being on a roll, I worked on the next chapter and … HAPPY HUMPDAY! Hope you enjoy this dose of BAMF!John. Plus something new! The story is drawing to a close. OnO Tis daunting. Don't forget to review.)**

John kicked in the door with ease. Firmly planting his foot on the ground, John quickly scoped the hallway: _Left, right, clear._ With a flick of two fingers, John motioned for the three other men to spread out and check the rooms in the immediate vicinity.

They had been searching these lower levels for roundabout an hour now, the never-ending hallways creating a damp, musty maze. John was quickly losing whatever self-control he had left on reserve. Extended periods of stress tended to burn through John's patience. _Well, that and having the man you love being taken by an insane drug dealer who most likely works for Moriarty, _a voice in the back of John's head spoke up.

_Hold on, 'man you love'? _John thought, his brow furrowing. _When did that conclusion get reached?_ He didn't have the strength to deny it any longer. John Watson definitely loves Sherlock Holmes. And this separation was killing him, bit by bit.

John was shaken from his musings by Lieutenant Mulder who quietly asked if John was okay. John nodded. Mulder gave him one more worried look before nodding himself. John bounced from foot to foot and tilted his head from side to side, popping his neck and relieving some of the tension built up there. He needed to focus. Keeping focus would save Sherlock.

Back in Captain Mode, John looked at his three fellow operatives and, upon receiving a negative from all of them, turned to lead them down another hall. They made their way systematically down each hall, checking the rooms four at a time, and just when they were about to make another left, a scream sounded.

John turned towards the noise, easily pinpointing its origin, but just as quickly realized that it wasn't Sherlock. Granted John hadn't ever heard him scream, and honestly hopes he'll never have to, but the pitch was still too high for it to conceivably be Sherlock. _Not Sherlock, not my problem,_ Captain Watson thought. But, just as he was about to walk away, John paused. _What if Sherlock is nearby?_ he wondered. And then he thought, _It shouldn't matter. You're a doctor, you help people. It's __**your**__ job._ John turned on the spot again, looking back down the hallway.

Unable to find any answers in the darkness, John looked at the three men awaiting his orders. The two that John hadn't bothered to learn the names of watched him expectantly, obviously waiting for him to tell them to proceed towards the cry. But then his gaze focused on Lieutenant Mulder. He looked on without expectation or any visible opinion. All John could see in his eyes was acceptance and understanding. Their small exchange on the matter of John and Sherlock's relationship had obviously left an impression (_A correct one,_ that voice whispered again) and Mulder was perfectly fine with John's next decision, biased or not.

Gritting his teeth and growling slightly, John turned sharply about-face and led the team towards the noise. The hallway was a straight shot that ended with a three-way split, each direction containing just one door. As they walked, the four men continued their practice of checking the rooms. Once they reached the intersection, one man went left, one went right, John went straight, and Lieutenant Mulder remained in the center as lookout.

John walked forward silently, his training automatically taking hold, and held his gun steady with the closed door. As he drew closer, John heard the soft murmur of a voice. Then he noted that the door was metal (_not rusted, so specifically put in recently_) and on it was one of the cliché slats that could open and close. Thankfully the handle was on the outside so, once John had reached the door, he was able to open it just a touch. Just enough to glance into the room. Just enough to see what was within.

Just enough to see Sherlock's bruised, broken, bloody body stretched out unconscious on the floor, a pool of blood collecting around his head.

Just enough to make John see red.

* * *

The second Sherlock froze, Phen knew he had done something wrong, but he didn't know what. He tried to make it better by telling Sherlock what he wanted to know, but it just made it worse. Sherlock had started to twitch, his mouth silently repeating something, and then, out of the blue, he pitched forward and knocked himself out.

Unable to help himself, Phen screamed. And that's when _they_ knew something was wrong.

"Aw, Phen. Look what you've done," Stephen tutted, pursing his lips and slowly shaking his head. He stood just to the left of Sherlock, dressed in his usual pressed trousers, V-neck shirt, and black blazer. Stephen's gaze drifted up from Sherlock. "What do you think, Ruax?"

"I think Phen's made another bloody mess for us to clean up," Ruax growled from Sherlock's right. He was dressed as Phen currently was: loose, dark jeans and a white button-up with its sleeves rolled up to the elbow all covered in streaks of blood. Phen began to tremble and his eyes frantically moved from Stephen to Ruax and back a few times before resting on Sherlock.

Stephen gave a humorless laugh, throwing his head back. "And what should we do with our little tattletale here?" He turned to Phen, eyes glinting. "Our little blabbermouth." Stephen took a few steps forward and Phen scrambled back, eyes wide and trained one the man before him. "Our little whistleblower." Phen opened his mouth to make some sort of protest, but nothing came out.

"Leave the little shit alone, Stephen," Ruax sneered. "I'm more worried about Mr. Holmes here," he added, lightly kicking Sherlock's head. "Moriarty won't take him if he's dead." Ruax turned to Phen and pinned him with a glare. "You'd better not have killed him."

Phen wildly shook his head. "I-I didn't touch him." Both Stephen and Ruax shared looks before staring back down at Phen who was still curled against the far wall, just left of the door. "H-He… We just talked." Stephen casually arched an eyebrow. "RUAX IS THE ONE WHO BEAT HIM!" Phen forced out.

Both Stephen and Ruax physically flinched. During their entire existence, not once had Phen spoken louder than the average indoor-voice. Sure, he had screamed and cried and sobbed at all volumes, but not once had he raised his voice so. That was dangerous and both of them knew it, even if Phen didn't. Stephen and Ruax shared a look. They needed to reassert their control over Phen or chance disappearing.

"You know what," Ruax smirked, "I think Phen does need to face the repercussions of _telling_." He took a few steps towards Phen, surprised and worried when he didn't instantly draw back into himself.

Stephen noticed as well. "What should be do then? Tease him? Beat him? Torture him?" Stephen paused. "Put him in the dark again?" Phen flinched that time and Stephen and Ruax grinned simultaneously.

"I like the dark, Stephen," Ruax hissed menacingly. "What about you?"

"Definitely the dark," Stephen readily agreed. Phen had locked his arms about his legs that were drawn to his chest. And yet he still trembled. He couldn't do this. He couldn't face Stephen and Ruax. They would destroy him. They would put him away. And he wouldn't escape for years. Just like last time. But probably worse.

But then Phen peeked between his knees. In front of him, just past the approaching Stephen and Ruax, Sherlock lay, still as stone and bleeding enough to make Phen worry. _Sherlock._ The man had been kind; he had listened. Phen was sure it was just an act to get information (he may be a coward, but he wasn't stupid), but it still felt good to have an ear to talk to, a shoulder to cry on. Sherlock was probably the first person that had actually heard what Phen had said.

Well maybe not all he had said, but enough to make the connection with Joey. And enough to give reassuring smiles at the right times. Sherlock was there for Phen.

And now, Sherlock was hurt and needed him. Looking over Sherlock's still form once more, Phen came to a decision. He wouldn't let Stephen and Ruax push him around. Not anymore. Not when Sherlock Holmes needed his help.

Phen looked up at the two men approaching him, eyes hard and mind set. They obviously saw the resolution for they stilled and watched him warily. "Y-you," Phen paused, clearing his throat. "You are not going to do anything. This is my body, my mind, and I am sick of being nowhere." The more he spoke, the surer Phen was that he was doing the right thing. The stronger his voice became. "I have no need for you anymore: I can fend for myself." They both blinked sluggishly at him. "Didn't you hear me? I said to GO AWAY!" Phen finished with a yell and the two men flinched before disappearing.

Phen blinked a few times, too cautious to instantly believe they were vanquished. But they remained gone. Trying to keep the surge of hope in his chest at bay, Phen slowly closed his eyes and searched within himself. And that was all he found: himself. And it was glorious. But the victory was short lived. Not one second later, there was a loud bang quickly followed by a crash.

The heavy metal door flew open to reveal a short man clothed in formfitting black trousers, a black turtleneck, and he wore a black beanie. Phen noticed that he also wore Kevlar, had a pistol tucked in his waistband against his back, and carried a large gun. The man didn't even glance towards Phen as his eyes were trained on Sherlock. But who _was_ he?

"John Watson!" The name popped, unexpected, into Phen's head and came, unbidden, out of his mouth.

* * *

John swallowed a yell. He couldn't alert anyone in the vicinity of their presence, no matter how much seeing Sherlock on the floor like that made his chest constrict. John blinked rapidly, taking deep breaths, or rather trying to as they came short and shallow instead. He turned and frantically waved for Mulders. Thankfully the man noticed John and went over quickly.

Unable to form a coherent sentence, John just pointed to the door and watched as the lieutenant looked for himself and saw his face twist in horror. Mulder looked down at John who was doubled over, bracing himself on his knees and inhaling and exhaling sharply. Thinking back to Sherlock's wounds, Mulder could tell that they didn't have time to follow protocol. The objective was to get Holmes the younger out a safely and quickly as possible. Protocol would slow things down.

Captain Watson glanced up at Lieutenant Mulder and again found no judgment in his gaze, just understanding. John blinked and Mulder nodded. _Alright then, _John thought as he nodded back, giving a small smile in thanks. He turned his gaze back to the door, quickly trying to determine the easiest way to open the large door without making too much noise. But that line of thinking was quickly destroyed when John heard a voice yell from within, "GO AWAY!"

Again, he didn't recognize the voice, but John was beyond caring at the moment. Without a second thought, John leveled the gun he was carrying with the lock, shot once, and then kicked the _bloody_ door in. It swung open to reveal Sherlock in the same position as John had seen him in just moments ago. But now John could see how extensive Sherlock's injuries were and it chilled him to the bone.

He took a few cautious steps in, eyes trained solely on Sherlock's figure. John slipped into Doctor Mode, partially to help assess the injuries better and partially to alienate himself from the surge of emotions he felt; in Doctor Mode, Sherlock was just another patient. His eyes scanned up and down the man before him, noting each bruise, break, and cut visible, and quickly determining that he needed medical attention immediately.

Doctor Watson took another step towards the patient, getting ready to administer emergency first aid when someone called out, "John Watson!" Recognizing his name, and vaguely the voice, John turned to see a man sitting to the left of the door, his green eyes wide and hands firmly clapped over his mouth. Instantly John realized that this man was Stephen Morris: drug lord, focus of Mycroft's attention, and ultimate kidnapper of one Sherlock Holmes.

John looked the man up and down, noting his wide eyes and stained shirt. John turned back to Sherlock and took note of all lacerations; some were a day or two old, but most were fresh, just a few hours old. John's shoulders tensed and he took a few calculated deep breaths, clenching his hands till they shook from the effort and the knuckles were white. He slowly tilted his head to the side, carefully observing Morris out of the corner of his eye. The man seemed to pull back into himself slightly and that just fed John's anger.

"I-I didn't," the man stuttered. "It w-wasn't me." John closed his eyes, inhaling sharply and pursing his lips. "Sh-Sherlock–" Morris didn't say another word because John had promptly punched him.

Protocol be damned. Again.

"You aren't worthy to even _think_ his name," John spat to the, now, unconscious man. Ignoring the drug lord's bleeding nose, John turned back to Sherlock and carefully rolled the man over onto his back. John physically flinched so hard he lost his footing and fell from a squat to flat on his bum. If Sherlock looked beaten from the back, he was completely obliterated on the front. His face was bruised, he had weeping wounds all over, and he had, by John's quick estimate, about one broken, two fractured, and four bruised ribs.

John simply sat there as the world around him spun off its axis. He just sat and stared at the man he loved so much it physically pained him when they were separated. His thoughts swam about his head, cloudy and unfocused and clogging up his other senses.

"Captain Watson. John. JOHN!" John flinched and looked up to see Lieutenant Mulder watching him with such sympathy in his eyes. John blinked and looked around, noticing the rest of the team. _Mulder must have radioed them in,_ John thought absently. "Are you alright John?" Mulder asked quietly, squatting down next to the dazed man.

John blinked slowly. _Shock. Loss of adrenaline. You're out of steam,_ his mind unhelpfully supplied. He sluggishly looked from Mulder to the rest of the team and then down to Sherlock. "Help him," John managed before passing out himself.

* * *

When John had initially signaled Mulder over, the Lieutenant instantly saw the desperation and fear and _rage_ in his eyes and understood. When a man within shouted, Mulder watched as John forced his way in like an unstoppable force and understood. John's almost confession still fresh on his mind, Mulder gave the man time alone with Sherlock, excusing his absence by radioing in the rest of the team, and understood.

When he entered the room where Sherlock was chained to the wall and unconscious on the floor, Mulder found he hadn't understood as much as he'd thought. There was a second man laying unconscious on the floor with a bloody, and most likely broken, nose. Closer inspection revealed it to be Stephen Morris himself. Mulder then turned his attention to the younger Holmes and his doctor.

John looked far more broken and worn than he had minutes before. His eyes were wide and unfocused, tears flowing freely down his face. The man had obviously collapsed at the sight of Sherlock's state. Honestly it was enough to make Mulder feel a bit weak at the knees. But all this was understandable.

What Mulder didn't seem to be able to comprehend was why John wasn't _helping_ Sherlock. The man had practically walked the whole of London looking for him. He threatened and ordered around the _British Government_ for Sherlock. John H. Watson, Captain and doctor and blogger, had basically gone to the ends of the earth to find this man and ensure his safe return. So why wasn't he doing anything now?

A quick call of his name grabbed John's attention, but Mulder easily saw that John still wasn't completely there. And then he whispered, so tearful and broken, "Help him," and Mulder understood.

John had focused his energy on finding Sherlock. He didn't dare contemplate what had occurred during the five days that Sherlock had been in Morris's clutches. He didn't have the strength or energy to. So, in John's head, Sherlock had remained perfectly preserved as he was the last time John had seen him. But now John was faced with reality. Sherlock wasn't fine; he was beaten and broken and bleeding. And that just took all that was left in John.

So when John collapsed, Mulder easily caught him, half expecting it, before glaring up at the rest of the team.

"This is no time to be standing around," he barked. "You two, restrain Mr. Morris there. You three, unchain Mr. Holmes here and give him emergency first aid. The rest of you get to help carry these three out." Instantly there was motion and orders were being carried out. Mulder momentarily turned his gaze back to the man in his arms before looking over to the younger Holmes. _You are much loved, _he thought. _Don't squander this man's devotion._

**(A/N: I was contemplating whether to have smaller chapters, which probably means quicker updates but worse cliffhangers, or longer chapters, which means it takes longer and I'm more likely to get stuck but there's more meat. Either way there will be cliffhangers. Part of life, sorry. But then I realized, that it didn't matter. You guys will read it no matter what [a fact which still excites me to no end]. **

**And then I thought, ****_I have such loyal readers. I'll give them more per chapter. _****So I didn't stop at the first break like I wanted to. You're welcome. :3**

**Don't forget to review. Tis my go-go juice.)**


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